


Alien Angel

by SeekingIdlewild



Series: Hymns for Lost Angels [1]
Category: Stargate Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Angels, M/M, Pre-Slash, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-24
Updated: 2014-10-24
Packaged: 2018-02-22 10:00:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2503778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SeekingIdlewild/pseuds/SeekingIdlewild
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rush is the last person in the universe whom Young would willingly trust with his secret. Naturally, it's Rush who discovers it first.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Alien Angel

_Are you an angel_  
 _Whose ship ran aground?_  
 _Can't get a grip_  
 _On this planet you've found_  
 _Never to look down_  
 _Trade in my halo_  
 _For feet on the ground_

"Alien Angel" by 3

 

* * *

 

Young tilted his head back to stare into the darkened sky. His face was pelted with warm raindrops, rare and precious on this dry, craggy world, and it almost drew a smile to his lips. It was a good night to fly. A good night to feel the rain and delude himself into believing, just for a little while, that it could cleanse his stained feathers. A good night to forget the pain of lost memories, the never-ending burden of a sorrow he could not explain or put a name to. When he flew, he felt nothing but the joy of speed and wind and sky. Everything seemed so simple, and all the things he had forgotten, such as who and what he really was, seemed unimportant.

Right now, most of the personnel on Icarus Base were sleeping to the patter of rainfall, oblivious to the fact that their commander was currently stripping to the waist on one of the many outcroppings of rock that served as a balcony. As for the night patrol, he knew how to avoid their notice. He knew their rounds, knew the exact moment when his takeoff would go unobserved. If he had been less selfish, perhaps he would have done something about that little lapse in security. But the truth was that he needed this - like sustenance, like breathing - and he was a better watchman in the air than any of his men could possibly be on the ground.

He rolled up his shirt, jacket, and dog tags into a compact bundle and stuffed them into a depression in the rock face where, hopefully, they would remain out of sight. His back was already itching with the need to extend his wings, to stretch them out to their fullest and work out the phantom kinks that always formed then they were hidden from view. He gave into that need, and his wings bloomed from his back like blades of grass pushing out of the earth. His muscles ached with the strain of rapid growth, but he didn’t mind it. He liked the feeling of _becoming_ , when usually he felt so depressingly static.

There were only two niggling concerns that blunted his joy at having his wings free once more. The first was the color of his feathers. At the top of each wing they were a radiant, reflective gold, but gradually they grew more tarnished as they progressed downward until they turned solid black at the tips. He knew that was wrong, although he wasn’t sure why. The effect was certainly arresting, and far less gaudy than solid gold would have been, but he couldn’t overcome the idea that they had not always looked like this, as if they had been smudged with dirt and then dipped in pitch. But regardless of their color, they still worked for now, and that was what mattered.

His other concern was more pressing, because he knew it might one day affect his ability to fly. His feathers were becoming more ruffled with every flight, and every time he tucked them away or brought them back out, the damage spread. He didn’t have a bird’s ability to groom himself - his wings were not exactly conveniently located - and he had never dared to ask for help. So as his wings became more disheveled, he grew more worried, and it cast a grim shadow over his enjoyment.

But tonight, Young was putting those burdens out of his mind. Overhead, a sea of shifting clouds called to him, seductive as a siren’s song, and he was powerless to resist the reckless thrill it promised.

He stretched and flexed each wing in turn, preparing for takeoff. Then he walked to the edge of the rocky ledge, shook himself once, and plunged over it. For a few seconds he simply let himself freefall, loving the dizzying rush of air and breathless awareness of danger. Then he stretched out his wings and, with a few powerful beats, he rose, soaring toward the overcast sky.

The rain did nothing to impede his flight. It beaded on his feathers and slicked off without ever truly dampening them. As for his clothes, he didn’t mind if they got drenched - he knew from experience that he could carry the added weight with ease, and far more, if necessary.

He glided over the rocky wastes, never venturing too far from the cliffside which formed the outer surface of the base. He was too protective of his people to wander off when he might be needed at any moment. It was risky, staying close to the base, because he was likely to be picked up on the scanners. But fortunately for him, there were multiple species of very large, bird-like creatures indigenous to this region, and he would almost certainly be mistaken for one of them. That was more plausible than the idea that the commander had suddenly sprouted wings and taken them for a joyride, after all.

The rain had stopped and the clouds parted by the time Young turned his thoughts away from the wild joy of freedom and back to duty and solid ground. The thought of flat stone under his boots no longer filled him with dissatisfaction, and the weight of cares upon his shoulders seemed lightened. He would be good for a few more days, until the burden of his command grew too heavy once more and the lure of the sky became too tantalizing to ignore.

For now, he ought to be getting back. His shift started in three hours, and he wanted some time to sit and meditate in his quarters before he had to interact with people again. He always did his best thinking after a flight, and he definitely had a few things to ponder.

He swooped down toward the cliff, a dark, inhuman silhouette against a starry sky. Then, with wings extended to slow his descent, he fell the last few meters to land with practiced skill on the balcony. He gave his wings one last flap just for the pleasure of it, and then froze in sudden horror. Because on the other side of the platform, deep in the shadows cast by a rocky overhang, a single point of light had flared bright with the gust of air and then died down to a subtle glow. A cigarette. _Fuck._

The cigarette fell to the stone and was extinguished under the sole of a boot. Young knew who it belonged to even before Rush stepped out from the shadows and into the soft starlight.

Well, damn.

Young had always known he would get careless and slip up eventually. How could he expect to hide something like an enormous pair of wings forever? It was amazing that he had managed it this long, that Emily and David and the other people close to him had never shown any signs of suspicion. General O’Neill had guessed that there was _something_ off about him, Young knew, but he had never pried and Young had never volunteered any information. It wasn’t important. It had no effect on his job. It was just his sole tie to a past that he couldn’t remember, that officially had never existed. It wasn’t Colonel Young who took those late night flights while most of the world slept. It was someone else, someone older and stronger, yet more broken than a human colonel ever could be.

He had always hoped it would be someone like Greer or TJ who discovered his secret first. Someone he trusted even more than he trusted himself. They would have guarded it, guarded _him_ . That wouldn’t have been so terrible. But this, _this_ was a calamity, because it was Rush, and Rush had made it clear that he didn’t like Young, that he didn’t respect or trust him. He didn’t owe Young any loyalty, and he had no reason to keep his secrets.

Young met Rush’s eyes from across the balcony, preparing for the worst. He wasn’t surprised to note that Rush’s eyes were blown wide with surprise and curiosity, but not with disbelief. No, Rush wasn’t one to doubt the evidence of his own eyes. The universe was full of wonders, and Rush always seemed willing to expand his mind enough to make them all fit. It was one of the things Young grudgingly admired about him.

Rush took another step forward. There were questions in his eyes but for once, he seemed to find it difficult to voice them. “Are they--?” he began, and then broke off.

“They’re real,” Young said, flexing his right wing slowly to demonstrate his control over it.

“Yes, I can see that,” Rush said, letting out a breathless little laugh that inspired a faint glimmer of hope within Young. There was nothing derisive or malicious in that laugh. It sounded pleased, even warm. “I was trying to tell what color they are, but it’s still too dark…” Rush’s expression cleared, and he slipped a hand into an inner jacket pocket. He drew out his lighter, flicked it on, and moved toward Young.

“Careful,” Young said as he came a little too close for comfort. But Rush only stepped even closer in response, disappearing behind the outstretched wing. Young could no longer see the glow of the lighter, nor could he feel its whisper of heat, but he guessed that it was now less than a foot away from his wing.

“I’m not going to singe your pretty plumage,” Rush said, and _now_ he sounded derisive. Young gritted his teeth, and his little spark of hope winked out. He bitterly regretted this indiscretion, regretted the whole damn evening, because _that_ had sounded more like the Rush he knew. He wondered how long he’d be paying for tonight’s mistakes, and how, for a brief moment, he had managed to believe that Rush might not use this knowledge against him.

But then Rush startled him by adding in a thoughtful tone, “I’m just trying to get an idea of who you are.”

Young craned his neck in an effort to see him, but Rush was still hidden from view, and Young didn’t want to move his wing while it was so close to an open flame. He waited a few seconds to see if Rush would elaborate without prompting (apparently not), and then asked, “Who I am?”

“Yes,” was Rush’s singularly unhelpful answer.

“You know who I am,” Young said, frustrated.

“Better than you do, I imagine,” Rush murmured cryptically. Then there was a soft click indicating that the lighter had been closed, and Young felt safe enough to fold his wings against his back and turn around.

When he did, he was forcibly struck by the confused mixture of hope and doubt and excitement and caution playing over Rush’s craggy features. Young had never seen him focus so much attention on a person before; under ordinary circumstances, only Rush’s work had the power to capture his interest to this degree. And it wasn’t just interest that Young could see on Rush’s face. There was recognition there, too, as if Rush understood what he was seeing with a clarity that Young couldn’t hope to match.

“I don’t understand,” Young said, feeling helpless. He was caught between longing and suspicion, desperate for an explanation yet bracing himself for… he did not even know for what. Lies? Mockery? But Rush’s gaze was serious and unwavering, and Young found himself inclined to trust him… within reason.

“I know,” Rush replied softly. “I’m trying to decide how much to tell you.”

 _Everything you know_ , Young wanted to say. _Explain me to myself._ But all he said aloud was, “You’ve seen someone like me before.”

Rush gave another soft huff of laughter, and this time it sounded almost fond. “Yes. You’re not as rare as you think.”

“Please, Rush.” The entreaty burst out of Young almost against his will. He felt like someone was dangling a glittering jewel before his eyes - a beautiful, tantalizing lure - and he couldn’t move or look away. He needed this as much as he had needed to fly.

Rush smiled, and Young thought there a touch of pity in his eyes. “Yes, all right,” he said very quietly so that Young could only just catch the words. Then Rush said nothing else for a while. He looked meditative, as if he was carefully choosing his words. Coming up with an elaborate bit of fiction, perhaps? How was Young to know the difference, if that were the case?

“Your wings tell a story,” Rush said eventually. “They can’t tell me your exact identity, of course, but they don’t really need to. Your real name and title would be meaningless to you now, I suspect. The memory wipe tends to be… thorough. But the color is interesting. Gold, for royalty. You were someone very important. Exalted.” His smile turned faintly ironic. “That must have been nice for you.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Young muttered, shifting uncomfortably at the idea. “It doesn’t sound like me.”

Rush’s smile widened in approval. “Yes, well, it clearly didn’t last, judging by those darker feathers. They’ve been permanently scorched. You lost your master’s favor, and you were punished.”

 _That_ sounded more like him, Young thought grimly. He thought of the sorrow that clung to him every time he unfurled his blackened wings, and of the certainty that those wings had not always looked so soiled. He thought of his life: the invisible, leaden weights that made his shoulders ache, the marriage that felt like an ill-fitting glove, the guilty, stolen pleasures of TJ’s bed, and this glorified babysitting job that he called his ‘command.’ He was fraying inside and out, spiraling ever closer to the ground, awaiting his inevitable crash. Yes, he could easily believe that this was some sort of punishment for past misdeeds.

“I don’t remember that,” he said, “but it sounds right. How do you know all this?”

Rush shrugged off the question and countered it with another. “What’s the first thing you remember?”

Young frowned, casting his mind back to that first, surreal day. “Waking up in bed one morning with twenty-five years’ worth of memories that weren’t mine. Knowing I was Lieutenant Everett Young and knowing I wasn’t at the same time.”

“Awkward for you,” Rush commented.

“You have no idea. I was a newlywed.”

Rush’s lips quirked into a lopsided smile. “That explains a few things.”

Young thought of TJ and closed his eyes briefly. That had seemed justified at the time. He loved his wife - he _did_ \- but he hadn’t chosen her. The temptation to exercise his free will and select his own partner had always been there, hovering in the back of his mind, but it wasn’t until he met TJ that he had finally acted on it. It was a mistake, but it was one he had made with his eyes wide open. A deliberate act of defiance against… someone. He wasn’t even sure whom. But naturally the people who had been most hurt by it were Emily, TJ, and himself.

“Yeah,” he sighed.

Rush shook his hair out of his eyes and tilted his head to one side. He was watching Young with an intent expression, as if he was trying to make up his mind about something. Young waited, even though his patience was on the verge of giving out completely. He was laid bare right now, sickeningly vulnerable, and Rush was giving him almost nothing in return.

Then Rush seemed to come to a decision. He drew a horizontal circle in the air with his finger. “Turn around and unfold your wings.”

Young hesitated. _Yes, great idea. I’ll just turn my back and deliberately offer my wings up on a silver platter to the man I’ve just shared my most damning secrets with_ , he thought dryly. _Because I’m not defenseless enough right now_. But then he did it, because he was already in too deep to balk now. He didn’t hear the click of Rush’s lighter, so there was no cause for alarm just yet.

And then he felt a tender touch on one of his primaries, and he felt as if his disjointed world had shifted into its rightful place under his feet. Warmth unfurled within his chest and spiraled languidly outward until he felt it in his limbs, in his fingers and toes. The comfort of the sensation was indescribable; it was like taking a long, deep breath of air when be had previously been restricted to quick, shallow gasps. He hadn’t even realized he needed this until now, but _oh god_ , did he need it.

Rush took his time arranging Young’s feathers, and there was something very practiced in his efforts; he seemed to know the anatomy of Young’s wings even better than Young did. At the moment, he was focusing on Young’s flight feathers, adjusting those that were out out of place and smoothing those that had become ragged with neglect. Young stood very still, head bowed and eyes closed. Questions drifted through his mind, half-formed and impossible to articulate. He didn’t even try to speak; he was too absorbed in this sense of contentment, this balm on his broken soul.

Rush finished with Young’s flight feathers and moved on to his coverts. “When I first landed on Earth,” he said, finally breaking their companionable silence, “I went a hundred years without this. By the time I met someone I trusted enough, I couldn’t even fly. There was too much damage.”

“You’re like me?” Young murmured, half-emerging from his pleasurable trance. In his present state of hazy bliss, he found that he wasn’t even surprised. Of course Rush wasn’t human. That explained so much about him.

“Well, not precisely like you,” Rush said dryly. “Not so wellborn, for one thing. And I made the decision to leave - I wasn’t cast out.”

Young blinked his eyes open, trying to concentrate. “Why?”

“Why’d I leave?” Rush gave a soft, bitter laugh. “Well, a nobody can make something of himself on Earth, if he’s clever enough. Our people don’t really understand the concept of upward mobility.”

“Oh.”

Rush laughed again, and it sounded much more pleasant this time. Young found himself smiling slightly in response. “You’re even less articulate than usual, Colonel. I’m impressed. I didn’t think it possible.”

Young snorted, feeling much too comfortable to be offended.

Rush began to work on a particularly rumpled clump of feathers, and Young hissed with pleasure. Had Rush really gone a hundred years without this? For Young it had been twenty years, and now that he knew what he’d been missing, he couldn’t imagine living without it again. “Who does this for you now?” he asked dazedly.

Rush’s hands stilled suddenly. Several beats of silence passed before he answered briefly, “No one.”

“But you said--” Young began, and then he broke off. Oh. Oh, what a stupid shit he was. “Your wife.”

“Yes.” There were worlds of grief wrapped up in that single, hushed syllable.

“I’m sorry.”

After another moment of stillness, Rush resumed his task, and the light, attentive touch on Young’s feathers felt like forgiveness for his blunder. “She was human,” Rush said in a colorless voice. “It was going to happen sooner or later.”

Young wasn’t immediately sure how to respond to that. On their surface the words were callous, but somehow he knew they weren’t intended that way. And while he had never seen any obvious sign that Rush was in mourning, he’d always supposed that the scientist’s superhuman work ethic was, at least to some extent, his way of coping with his loss. Young still thought so, even now when he knew that ‘superhuman’ described Rush in more ways than one.

“You’ve been alive for over a century,” Young said, deciding to steer the conversation in a less heartbreaking direction. He still had so many questions he wanted answered, after all.

“I was on Earth for over a century,” Rush corrected.

Oh, right. “How… how long do we live?”

A warm breath tickled the nape of Young’s neck as Rush chuckled. He had begun to work on the delicate feathers on the innermost part of Young’s wings, which placed him directly behind Young’s back. His closeness, combined with his position in Young’s blind spot, should have triggered Young’s defensive instincts, but somehow it didn’t. For the first time in memory, Young felt perfectly safe.

“We’re eternal,” Rush said.

“Eternal,” Young repeated, trying to wrap his head around that idea and failing miserably. It couldn’t possibly be true. Aside from some weird memory issues and a pair of wings, he wasn’t _that_ different from the humans he interacted with on a daily basis. The idea that he would outlive them all, that they would pass on and he would linger… forever…

No.

“Yes.”

 _No_.

“But we’re aging,” Young pointed out desperately.

“We _appear_ to be aging. It’s a survival mechanism,” Rush said with the exaggerated patience of one explaining a simple concept to a small child. “Can you imagine how often we’d have to move around and take on new identities if we always looked the same age? This gives us the chance to put down roots, at least for a little while. Then we start over as young men somewhere else. I’m on my third identity now.”

Young made a soft sound of protest, still reeling at the concept of eternal life. He didn’t want it. Forever was much too long. Oh _god_ , just _think_ of all the mistakes he would make, given an eternity in which to make them. The accumulated guilt would grind him into the dust.

Rush stroked a finger over the soft scapulars near Young’s right shoulder blade, soothing away his budding distress. “Tell me,” he whispered, “Do you really feel like you’ve aged? Do you feel any different now than you did twenty years ago?”

“Physically? No,” Young admitted. He didn’t even have to think about it. He had never been sick, never lost any of his strength or endurance except temporarily while injured, and he always made a full - if not necessarily speedy - recovery from those injuries. But emotionally, the years had certainly taken their toll. He _did_ feel older, just in mind rather than in body, and sometimes it was difficult to tell the difference.

Well, he _had_ felt older. Right now, he felt… renewed.

Rush was still idly petting Young’s feathers, which were now perfectly groomed. The effect that his workmanship had on Young’s mood was extraordinary; Young felt refreshed and sated in a way he couldn’t have imagined. The hollow place in his chest - a hole that had been widening with each passing year - was now full to the brim. He wished he knew how to express his gratitude.

“We can be hurt,” Rush said before Young had time to come up with a ‘thank you’ that didn’t sound too trite or awkward, “but we’ll always heal. For us, there’s no sickness or death. But we do need this.” Another loving stroke over Young’s feathers. “Not just physically to keep our wings in order, but psychologically too. It’s a devious little way to encourage us to stay with the flock.”

Oh, and didn’t Rush sound annoyed about _that_. Interesting.

“It seems like I wasn’t given much a choice,” Young commented.

“Ah, but that’s part of your punishment,” Rush said, “to live the rest of your life with a need that can’t be fulfilled. You didn’t know that you needed it, and your instincts were screaming at you not to reveal your wings to humans, so you couldn’t even discover it by mistake. This - finding each other - is quite the happy accident. The original intent would have been for you to live out eternity alone.”

Young felt a chill down his spine at that thought.

As much as he was enjoying Rush’s touch, he suddenly wanted to face him, to look into his eyes and try to parse the emotions hidden behind that steady voice. So Young banished his wings, waiting as they sank into his back. As always, once they were absorbed, he felt their presence under his skin, but oh, what a difference a little grooming made. Where before they had felt cramped and prickly, now they were sleek and smooth and comfortable. He owed Rush. He owed him _a lot_.

Young turned and met Rush’s eyes. “Thanks,” he said. The single word sounded so stark and inadequate, but it would have to suffice for now. Young had always been been better at conveying meaning through actions rather than words.

One corner of Rush’s mouth curved up into a smile of acknowledgement. “I stand to gain something here, too, you know,” he said. “At least for a little while.”

“A little while?”

“Until we dial the nine-chevron address,” Rush reminded him. “You turned the mission down.”

A bit of the warmth and peace that had been restored to Young now leaked away as he recalled how temporary their positions on this base really were. “Right,” he murmured, swallowing hard. “Of course.”

“I don’t know what’s on the other side of that address. It’s possible that it’s a one-way trip,” Rush added.

 _Shit._ So, then, Young had just made a discovery that could change the rest of his life, only to realize that the most important part of it might slip through his fingers in a matter of months or even weeks. Then he would be alone again, but worse off than before, because he would know exactly what he was missing. Not just a source of information about his past, not just someone to groom his feathers, but a potential friend of his own species. Someone who understood the parts of him that no human could possibly grasp. Someone he could _really_ talk to without having to hold anything back.

Maybe this wasn’t a happy accident after all. Maybe it was just part of his punishment.

“ _Or_ ,” Rush said, watching Young’s expression closely, “There could be a large, functional power supply on the other side and it could be quite a simple matter to move back and forth through the gate.”

“Right,” Young repeated, not particularly comforted.

Rush flashed that lopsided smile again, as if he was pleased by Young’s dejection. Bastard. Maybe he thought Young could be persuaded to join the expedition team after all, conveniently overlooking the fact that the team had already been hand-picked and approved by Homeworld Command and the IOA, and that trying to add another name to the list _now_ would be a monumental headache and probably wouldn’t meet with success.

 _Besides_ , Young thought wryly, _David would kill me._

“No use fretting about it now,” Rush said airily. He jerked his head toward the doorway and started edging in that direction. “Coming inside? The sun will be up any moment now.”

He was right. The sky was lightening by increments, broadly hinting at the approaching sunrise. Young could now make out the nuances of Rush’s smile and see the welcoming glitter in his eyes, and something about that warm gaze alleviated his unease. _Yes, no use fretting about it now. I’m going to enjoy this while I can._

“Wait,” Young said as Rush began to turn away.

Rush paused and looked back over his shoulder expectantly.

“I want to see them.”

Rush half-turned and cocked his head to one side. Then he shot a silent, pointed look toward the horizon.

“Just for a minute,” Young said. “Please.”

A brief pause, and then Rush relented. “If it’s so important to you,” he said, stripping out of his blazer and hastily flicking open the buttons of his shirt. He looked around for a place to put his clothes, but the rocky ground was still damp from the rain, so he pushed them into Young’s arms instead. Then he turned, presented his skinny back to Young, and set his wings free.

Young sucked in a breath and tightened his hold on Rush’s clothes as he watched. He had never seen this before, never guessed how effortless the transformation would appear, how organic and perfect and right the wings would look as they flared out from Rush’s shoulder blades. Young’s own wings resembled those of an eagle, but Rush’s were shaped more like a swallow’s. They were stunning, mottled in shifting shades of gray like that overcast sky Young had flown into just a little while ago.

“ _Jesus_ , Rush,” Young breathed.

“They’re not _that_ impressive,” Rush said, but he sounded pleased.

Young tucked Rush’s clothes under his left arm and reached out with his right to stroke the soft gray plumage. Rush let out a low, appreciative sound and a barely-discernible tremor ran through him.

“Later,” he said with obvious reluctance, “you can preen them as much as you like. I certainly won’t stop you. But now I have to put them away before we’re seen.”

Young obligingly withdrew and watched as those beautiful wings disappeared into Rush’s back with the same fluid ease with which they had emerged. “I’ve never seen…” Young started, faltered, and tried again. “I really thought I was the only one, for as long as I can remember. This is…”

Rush turned around and tugged his shirt and jacket out from under Young’s arm as Young fumbled for words. “Yes,” he said,  “I imagine it’s rather an important moment for you. But pull it together and put on a shirt before the sun comes up.”

Young laughed breathlessly. “Yeah, okay. Good idea,” he said, and followed Rush’s advice in a happy daze.

When he was dressed, Young turned to face the glowing horizon. The sun was just peaking out over the edge, throwing off fragile-looking beams of pale light and bathing the canyon in shades of pink and gold. He smiled, warmed to the depths of his mended soul.

Then he turned and followed Rush into the base.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Kudos and comments are always appreciated, and be sure to visit me on [Tumblr](http://seekingidlewild.tumblr.com/) for writing updates and general fandom squeeing.


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